


Welcome! Everything is Fine

by 1thirteen3, ReganX



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), The Good Place (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Character Death, Do not despair one of the thieves was saved, Do not presume one of the thieves was damned, F/M, Jonerys Endgame, Soulmates, The points system is messed up, broken clock, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28873314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1thirteen3/pseuds/1thirteen3, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReganX/pseuds/ReganX
Summary: In life, you can travel the Known World.In death, it all comes down to one of two places: the Good Place and the Bad Place.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 237
Kudos: 104





	1. Chapter One

When Jon opened his eyes, he was in a room with white walls, its wooden floor smoother than any he had ever seen, polished to a higher shine than even that of the great hall at Winterfell. He was sitting in a chair, with a smooth wooden seat and a wooden back. As his eyes adjusted to the bright light, he saw that his chair was one of about a dozen, set in a crescent, most occupied by a familiar face.

Arya sat to his right, a woman closer to thirty than she was to twenty, but still so like the young girl who lived in his memory that Jon could not help but smile at the sight of her. Tyrion Lannister sat to his left. All of the gold had been leeched from his hair but, as if to make up for its lack, a heavy chain of interlocking hands gleamed gold at his neck, and his crimson doublet was shot through with golden embroidery. He saw Sansa, resplendent in a gown of grey silk, twin direwolves in a darker grey on either side of the bodice, her long red hair crowned with interlocking silver wolves. Ser Brienne, in the gleaming white armour of a Kingsguard. Ser Podrick by her side, a man grown rather than a half a boy. Ser Davos, his hair thinner and his face more lined than when they last met, but his eyes as kind as ever. Gendry greeted him with a smile. Like the others, the years showed on his face, but instead of the fine clothes that Jon expected the Lord of Storm’s End to wear, he was clad in a simple vest and leather breeches. He recognised the man at Tyrion’s other side only dimly, and could not remember his name, if he had ever learned it. The man was hard-featured, but dressed as grandly as any Lord, a great chain of gold around his neck, bejewelled rings on every finger. He sought to hide it, but his apprehension was plain on his face as he took in their surroundings. Yara Greyjoy had changed little since he last saw her, but the scowl she gave him was as ferocious as it was on the day he was released from his cell, and she spat at him that if it were up to her, he would have been executed for murdering the Queen.

At the time, he was sorry that it had not fallen to her to decide his fate.

“Jon?” Sam was seated a few seats away, his eyes wide with astonishment as he took in his surroundings. His face was plumper than ever, his voluminous Maester’s robes making him look even bulkier than he had when Jon last saw him. He had a beard now, which made him look older than his years. “What are you doing here?” He glanced around him. “Where is here?”

Jon knew no more than he did. This room was like no place he had ever been before, and far removed from the snug hut, with its thick fur pelts to keep the cold at bay, that he had called home for nigh on ten years. The last thing he remembered was drifting to sleep in that hut, his muscles aching after a day spent felling trees and chopping wood to dry for the fire.

A gentle cough drew his attention to the front of the room, to a chair and a figure that Jon could have sworn had not been there a moment ago.

The woman seated in front of them looked to be well into the middle years of her life. Her hair was a light brown, threaded with silver strands, and framing her face in a crown of short, loose curls, her face lined but her cheeks plump and pink. Her clothes were unlike any Jon had ever seen, bright pink, and festooned with flowers. Her lips were curved in a smile.

“Welcome,” the woman said, in a voice so gentle and friendly that, despite his wariness over his strange surroundings, Jon could feel some of the tension seep from his body. “Please don’t be alarmed. Normally, we do this one-on-one, but this is the first time that we’ve had so many of you come to us at once, so we’ve had to improvise. We’ve tried to make it easier for you by putting you all with people you know already. It’s so much nicer when we can be amongst friends, isn’t it? My name is Betty, and the first thing you need to know is that you are dead. Welcome to your first day in the afterlife.”

Jon should have felt shock, anger, and distress, but instead he felt strangely calm, as if there was a small part of him that had already known this, and had only needed to have it confirmed aloud.

He looked around the circle of faces, and wondered where Bran was. Had his little brother survived whatever it was that had killed the rest of them, or was he simply with a different group?

“Most of you will not remember your deaths. This is normal. In the cases of sudden, and traumatic deaths, we erase the memory at first, in order to allow you to adjust. Some of you may have no recollection of the last days, weeks, or even months of your lives. Your memories will return, in time, as you adapt to the next stage of your existence. I know that this isn’t what any of you were expecting after death. Can I get a show of hands? How many of you had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen to you after you died?”

Jon did not move. After Melisandre’s magic brought him back to life, he no longer feared the judgement of the gods, old or new, because he knew that there was nothing beyond death. No reward for virtue. No punishment for sin. No chance of seeing those he loved again. Or so he had thought.

Scattered hands were raised, and the woman… Betty… pointed to a couple of them in turn, gesturing for them to speak.

“The Drowned God’s watery halls.” Yara Greyjoy scowled, as if furious to have been proven wrong.

_Darkness,_ the word came, unbidden, to Jon’s mind.

He remembered little of his death, but he remembered the darkness, the moonless, starless, unending night.

“The Seven Heavens,” Sansa chimed in, not waiting to be called on.

_Coldness._

He remembered feeling as if he was made of ice rather than flesh and blood. He remembered how, even after Melisandre used her fire god’s magic to bring him back to life, he never seemed to be able to get warm, no matter how many fires were lit, no matter how many layers of wool and fur he wore. The heavy cloak Sansa made for him could not drive away the chill from his bones any more than being back at Winterfell, where the hot springs kept the worst of the cold at bay, even in the icy depths of winter, could. The first time he truly felt warm after returning to life was in Dany’s arms.

Betty nodded. “And the Seven Hells, dear?” she prompted, waiting for Sansa to nod confirmation.

_Nothing._

No gods, Old or New, to praise him for his good deeds or censure him for his sins. No lost friends to greet him. No family to embrace him. No paradise. No Hell.

Betty’s eyes met Jon’s. She smiled encouragingly at him and, though he had not raised his hand, he felt compelled to say something, anything, about the afterlife. He could sense Ser Davos’ gaze on him, and knew that the man who saw him raised from the dead must wonder what it was he saw.

“The Dothraki believe that their spirits go to the Night Lands when they die,” Jon said at last. He remembered Dany’s distress when, after the Night King was defeated and they gathered to bury their dead, there could be no question of burning a horse for each lost member of her khalasar, so that they might have a mount to ride forever in the Night Lands.

“Every religion has its ideas of what is to come after death, and every religion is _wrong_ … well, mostly wrong,” Betty amended. “Humans have been trying to puzzle it out since the dawn of Time, bless them. They all tend to get a very small part of the picture right, and the rest completely wrong. The truth is much simpler. There is a Good Place, and there is a Bad Place. Good people go to the Good Place, and bad people go to the Bad Place.” Betty lifted a hand to forestall any questions, beaming at them. “I know that you all want to ask me the same question everybody else does: how do we know which people are good, and which people are bad? How can we be sure who belongs in which place? During your lives, every one of your actions had a positive or negative value, depending on how much good or bad that action put into the universe.”

Betty extended her hand, and an abacus appeared in it, similar to the one Maester Luwin used to teach Jon and Robb, and later the younger children, their numbers and how to calculate sums. One of the rods had a couple of green beads, the other had none.

“Save a child from certain death, and you earn twelve hundred points.” At her words, the number of green beads increased. “Poison a well, and you lose four thousand, six hundred and ten points.” The green beads disappeared, and red beads appeared on the other rod, stacked almost to the top. “And it’s not just the big things. Every time you ate a bowl of soup, or greeted your neighbour, or petted a dog, or kicked it… everything you did created some amount of good or bad, and earned or lost you points.” The abacus disappeared in a puff of white smoke. “When your time on Earth ends, we calculate the total value of your life. I am proud to say that our system, while too complex for any human to understand, is completely accurate, so you can rest assured that each of you will be judged exactly as you deserve. The people with the very highest scores go to the Good Place, where they will reap the rewards of living one of the best lives that could be lived. They will be reunited with any of their loved ones who are already there, and enjoy eternal happiness. Everybody else goes to the Bad Place, where they will be tortured for eternity. Soon, each of you will pass through this door.”

She extended her arms, and a door appeared behind her. It gleamed as if it was made of pearl rather than wood. It glowed, as if bathed in moonlight, and was intricately carved with images of flowers, butterflies, birds and trees, inlaid with silver.

“When you are ready, you will walk through that door, to the next phase of your existence.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice!” The man sitting next to Tyrion sprang up from his chair, striding towards the door. He pushed it open, and was gone before any of them could say a word.

“Wait! Wait!” A voice called from the back of the room, and a stern-featured man in sombre grey robes bustled in. “Stop!” When he reached Betty, he leaned forward, whispering something in her ear that made the smile fade from her face, to be replaced with a sombre frown.

“Jon, dear.” It was clear that she was making an effort to keep her voice cheerful, but her smile did not reach her eyes, and her palpable unease sent chills down Jon’s back. “There’s been an irregularity that needs to be clarified. You need to go with Shawn. I’m sure that you have nothing to worry about.”

It might have been reassuring, if not for the panicked expression in her wide blue eyes, which shone with tears.

Shawn scarcely spared Jon a glance as he rose from his chair and stepped away from the others. As soon as Jon reached his side, a door appeared directly in front of them, this time of plain wood. It opened, and Shawn led the way through it, not troubling to glance behind to ensure that Jon was following.

The room in which Jon found himself was not entirely unlike the study that had been his during his brief time as Lord Commander, except that instead of bare stone, the walls were smooth, and pale grey. The desk was of plain wood, painted white. Shawn claimed the chair behind the desk, and motioned for Jon to take the one set in front of it. As soon as they sat down, a book appeared on the table between them. Shawn took it and studied it intently for a moment before setting it down. He fixed Jon with a steely gaze.

“You have died already.” It sounded like an accusation. “Humans die once. That is how it works. You died twice.”

“I was killed by my brothers of the Night’s Watch. A red priestess brought me back to life. I never asked her to. I had no choice in the matter.”

“This is not how it is supposed to be,” Shawn told him, his irritation plain. “Humans are supposed to be born, to die, and then to be sent to the Good Place or the Bad Place based on their actions during their life. But you have lived two lives.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means a choice.” He gestured to the wall behind Jon. When Jon turned his head, he saw that the beautiful white door had appeared, but there was another door too, of gnarled black wood. Vicious looking thorns jutted out if it, looking sharp enough to shred any hand that touched them. Jon did not need to be told where it led. “You must choose whether you wish to be judged based on your actions since your birth, or since your rebirth. Consider carefully before you choose,” he warned. “Your eternal fate may hang in the balance.”

Dread coursed through Jon, like ice through his veins, and he had to tear his eyes away from the black door. He heard faint, agonised screams coming from behind it, and knew that he was not imagining it.

“Can you tell me what my score would be for each life?” he asked. He had no real hope that his question would be answered, but he had to ask, just in case. Betty had not said how many points he would need in order to enter the Good Place, but one of the choices available would lead him there, with his sisters, while the other…

Wait… not just his sisters, he realised with a thrill. He would be with his entire family. He would see Robb again. He would see his father, that is to say, his uncle – he would see Ned Stark, and could tell him that he had protected his children, as Ned once protected him. He would see Uncle Benjen, and little Rickon. Everyone.

He wondered if he would see Lady Catelyn. Would she have made it to the Good Place? He wondered what she would think of the bastard she despised, the bastard she was so certain was inherently prone to sin because of his birth, earning his place, and residing for eternity in the same place as her if she did indeed make it.

With a start, and a tight, warm squeezing in his heart he realised that he would see his mother. Finally, after a lifetime of wanting, a lifetime of longing he would see her. He would get to talk to her…

Shawn shook his head. “We never tell humans their scores.”

“Of course not.”

His first instinct was to declare that he wanted to be judged based on all of his actions since his birth, so he could benefit from the points he had gained for any good he did… but what of the bad things he did?

Had he lost points for killing Qhorin Halfhand, or gained points because he had done so at the man’s command, in order to win the trust of the Free Folk and learn of their plans? Had he lost points for lying to Mance Raydar, or gained them because he had done so in service to his brothers of the Night’s Watch? Did he lose points when he lay with Ygritte? Would killing Mance be judged murder or mercy? Both? Was it possible to gain and lose points for the same action? In defending the Wall against the Free Folk, he had killed so many of them, when they were trying to flee from the Others. Would the fact that he later allowed them to pass through the Wall be enough to make up for fighting them before?

What about when he was a boy, and envied Robb because he was Father’s heir, and because he had a mother who loved him. He had never acted on his jealousy, would never have hurt Robb in any way, not even to be Lord of Winterfell, but was his envy still held against him?

Jon had no idea.

“We don’t have forever. Actually, we do,” Shawn corrected himself. “But I have things to do. Make your choice.”

“Since my rebirth,” Jon said at last. There was no escaping what he had done since Melisandre brought him back to life, good or bad, but he could at least be free of the sins of his first life.

Indeed, while he had by no means been perfect since he was forced back to life, upon consideration he was certain he had done more good than he had bad. He had fought, and taken back Winterfell, the Stark’s ancestral home which rightly belonged to them. He had been chosen as King in the North. He had allowed Ned Umber, and Alys Karstark to keep their homes despite the treachery of their fathers. He had united the Free Folk with the Northerners, and successfully amalgamated a force strong enough to defeat the threat of the Night King.

He had protected his family.

And, while the righteousness of the action had plagued him constantly these past ten years, seeing Sansa, the Queen in the North, and the members of Bran’s Small Council all awaiting entry to the Good Place had confirmed to him that what he had done that day in Kings Landing, while terrible, had indeed been necessary. Had been good.

And that, that was surely the worst of his sins in his second life, the one that haunted him at night, when exhaustion left him unable to fight off thoughts of what might have been had he chosen differently. To realise now that the reverberations of that action had led to peace, and stability soothed his conscience, and gave him a sense of equanimity that he had been unable to achieve while he had been alive.

To know that, according to an almighty, and impartial standard of judgment, his actions that day were right. That they were just…

Yes, he was certain he had made the right decision in choosing to be judged on his actions since his rebirth.

“I thought that you would just ask to be judged by whichever had the highest score,” Shawn remarked.

Jon had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping that he would have done so, had he thought that this would be allowed.

For somebody who was in such a hurry, Shawn took his time in studying Jon, as if he was a creature as rare as a dragon or a direwolf, before he finally raised a hand in the direction of the doors at the back of the room. Jon held his breath at the gesture, only able to release the air from his lungs when the black door disappeared, leaving only the white, which gleamed even more brightly than before.

Relief. He felt an overwhelming feeling of relief.

He had made the right choice. He had made all the right choices. Not just now, but then too. When he was alive.

He was a good person. He had done the right thing. The door was proof.

He had to admit, that he was relieved to be going to the Good Place for more reasons than the confirmation that he had made sound, and honourable decisions in life. He did not think he could face Dany again. Not after all that had transpired between them. And now, now that he was going to the Good Place, with the good people, he would not have to.

“You may pass through the door.”


	2. Chapter Two

The first thing Jon felt when he stepped through the door was arms wrapped around him, warm and strong. He breathed in the scent of wool and leather, and heard a voice whisper his name.

In life, his father was never the most demonstrative of men. As a boy, he often wished that his father would hug and kiss him, especially when he saw Lady Catelyn lovingly embrace one of her five children. Perhaps he had when he was a babe, the last part of his cherished sister left in the world, on his first journey to Winterfell, or when he was young enough to be kept to the nursery, but Jon had no memory of his earliest days. By the time he was old enough to begin his first lessons in swordplay and archery, his father expressed affection through rare words of approval, when Jon performed a task to his satisfaction, rarer smiles, and even rarer touches. He clapped Jon on the back, or clasped him by the arm as he would a warrior. Boys grew up quickly in the North, forever aware that winter was coming, and that a man would need to be strong if he was to survive, and to protect those who depended on him for survival. Father knew that he would do his sons no kindness if he coddled them. Jon imagined that Father was also all too aware that it would excite Lady Catelyn’s jealousy if she thought him too affectionate with his bastard son, especially if he was more demonstrative with him than he was with Robb, and that he refrained from showing overmuch affection for the sake of peace in the household.

In death, however, Ned Stark held Jon close, as if he never wanted to let him go.

There was so much that Jon wanted to say.

He wanted to thank him for keeping him safe all those years, to tell him that he understood how difficult it must have been for him, as a man of honour, to lie, and that he knew how much it must have hurt him to cause his wife pain by letting her believe that he was untrue to her.

He wanted to tell him that he kept his vow as a man of the Night’s Watch, remaining faithful to his duty when he was tempted to desert, obeying orders even when it was difficult and painful, and only leaving the Wall when death released him from service.

He wanted to tell him that he had kept the North safe from the Boltons, the Night King, the Lannisters, and all who threatened it, protecting and caring for their people as a Stark should.

He wanted to tell him that he understood what it was to protect his kin, no matter the cost, to tell him that he had had to make the same choice, and that he chose to protect Sansa, Arya and Bran, just as Ned would have wanted him to, just as Ned had once protected him.

He wanted to tell him that everything he did in life, he did with him in mind, and that all he ever wanted was to be a son that he could be proud of.

He tried to say all of these things, but the only word he could utter was “Father”.

He felt a slight dampness on his neck and realised, to his shock, that his father was weeping. When his father drew back from the embrace, however, there was no sign of tears. He smiled as he held Jon at arm’s length for a moment, as if to study him, before enfolding him in an embrace once more.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon could see Lady Catelyn clutching Sansa close to her, weeping openly as she pressed kisses against her daughter’s hair, temple and cheeks. Sansa burrowed into her mother’s arms, her own arms wound tightly around her. Her lips were moving rapidly but Jon could not hear what she was saying. After a few moments, the two women reached out to pull Arya into their embrace. As a child, Arya had scorned sentiment, shying away from embraces more often than not, especially if others were present to bear witness, but now she relished in the closeness, clinging as tightly to her mother and sister as they did to her.

Seeing his sisters so happy in their mother’s arms, Jon found that he could not regret that Lady Catelyn was with them in the Good Place. She may have treated him coldly, resenting him because even her husband’s love for her was not enough to induce him to banish Jon from Winterfell, but he could not deny that she was a loving and devoted mother to her children.

_Mother._

The thought drove all others from his mind. He pulled away from his father, and he looked around, taking in his surroundings for the first time.

They were in a cavernous hall, larger by far than the Great Hall at Winterfell, probably even larger than the Hall of a Hundred Hearths in Harrenhal. The room was laid out for a feast, with brightly coloured banners hanging from an impossibly high ceilings, and long garlands of ribbons and flowers woven between them. He estimated that there were at least a hundred long trestle tables, laden with what seemed like thousands of dishes, but nobody was sitting down.

All around him, he could see clusters of people, and he knew that, like him, the others newly dead, newly arrived to the Good Place, were now reunited with those they had loved in life. He saw Ser Davos in the company of a woman who looked to be around fifty, who had the kindest eyes Jon had ever seen, and six or seven young men. He recognised the Princess Shireen, and couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Davos swinging the girl up into his arms and planting a smacking kiss on her now unmarred cheek. Sam and Gilly, and their children. Little Sam could no longer be called ‘little’, not when he was of a height with Sam, if not a hairsbreadth taller, but he had the same fair hair and sweet smile that Jon remembered from the boy’s infancy. The younger boy, the boy Gilly had told him was to be named for him, was a little short for his age, but sturdily built, with Sam’s round face.

Not everybody had somebody to greet them.

Yara and the man Jon had not recognized stood alone, each glaring at anybody who looked in their direction, as if daring them to comment on the fact that none of those they loved had been allowed to enter the Good Place.

Gendry was also alone, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other until Arya spotted him and, seemingly taking pity on his lonely state, snatched him by the arm and tugged him over to introduce him to her mother. Jon wondered what Lady Catelyn would have to say about a blacksmith turned Lord.

Jon had expected that Tyrion too would be alone, but he was pleasantly surprised to see a boy and a girl, each with golden hair, with him. He remembered Sansa telling him that Myrcella and Tommen were as kind and gentle as Joffrey was spiteful and cruel, so sweet of nature that it was difficult to believe that they were Lannisters on both sides, and for Tyrion’s sake, he was glad to see that they had made it.

His gaze combed over the faces in the room, searching out the one he longed to see above all others, a face that lived only in the dreams that gave flesh and colour to the statue in the crypt of Winterfell, but he did not see her.

“Jon!”

A boyish voice shouted his name, and Jon barely managed to steady himself to catch the young whirlwind that flung itself a him. Rickon was a sturdy weight in his arms, and when Jon set him on his feet, he marvelled that his youngest brother was almost as tall as he was. For a moment, his mother was forgotten as he enfolded Rickon in his embrace, and said a silent prayer of thanksgiving to whatever gods held sway here. Robb, Sansa, Arya and Bran had all lived to adulthood, had all had a chance to do great deeds to earn entry to the Good Place, but he had feared that Rickon, slain before his twelfth nameday, had not done enough.

"You're so big," he murmured, running a hand over the tangle of dark curls.

Rickon was only six, scarcely more than a babe, when Jon left Winterfell to join the Night’s Watch, but now they were almost of a height. Had Rickon lived another year or two, Jon was sure that he would have towered over him.

Part of him wanted to beg his little brother’s forgiveness for failing him, for not being faster to ride towards him, for not snatching him out of the way before Ramsey Snow’s arrow could find its mark, but the words died on his tongue. Whatever blows they might have been dealt in life, whatever hardships his family had endured, they were here now, in a place where they would know nothing but peace and joy. They were together again, and would be together for all of time, happy and united as they should always have been.

“Robb is here too, and Bran,” Rickon informed him, pointing across to Sansa, Arya, and Lady Catelyn. They had been joined by three others.

Bran’s movements were stiff and jerky, as if he was having difficulty adjusting to walking under his own power after so many years in a wheelchair, but Jon noted with pleasure that he was actually _smiling_ at Sansa and Arya. When they were reunited in life, Bran’s face was often emotionless and lifeless, as though the great power within him had burned away the warmth and vivaciousness of the boy he once was. It seemed that, in death, he had recaptured his joy.

Though Robb was slain not two years after they were parted, he looked a decade older, as if the power he had wielded in life had sapped him of his youth. The boy Jon once knew now bore himself with the dignity of a King, and the gravity of a warrior who had taken lives. A beautiful woman Jon assumed to be Robb’s Queen was with them. Robb had an arm each around Sansa and Arya, but he lifted his hand from Arya’s shoulder to raise it in greeting to Jon. Jon returned the gesture, but made no move to approach. He suspected that Lady Catelyn might find his presence unwelcome, even now, and had no wish to mar his sisters’ happy reunion with their mother and brothers. He and Robb would have plenty of time together, to share stories of their lives since their parting, and to discover the delights that the Good Place had in store for them.

Keeping one arm around Rickon, Jon looked back to Father. “What of my mother?” He could not bring himself to ask if she was here. Surely, if there was any justice in life or in death, Lyanna Stark must be here.

Father’s smile was a sad one. “I told you that the next time we spoke, I would tell you of your mother.”

“I found out who she is.”

“I know, my boy. I’m glad. I wish that I could have told you myself.”

“I understand why you didn’t.”

Much as he might wish that he had known as a child that, far from being a bastard, and the sole stain on Father’s honour, he was the son of parents who loved one another enough to be married, no matter the cost, Jon knew now that his father did the right thing by keeping the secret. Had he known from childhood who he truly was, he could not imagine that he would have been able to endure taunts about his bastardy without retorting that he was no bastard but a trueborn son of Houses Stark and Targaryen. Had he been told when he and his father parted ways after leaving Winterfell, he imagined that he might have reconsidered his choice to join the Night’s Watch. Perhaps he might even have travelled to Essos in search of his surviving Targaryen kin. If that had happened, he might never have been able to rally the North and its allies to defeat the Army of the Dead. He determinedly banished the thought that, had he sought out his Targaryen kin, he might well have been able to shield Dany from some of the many hardships she had endured in her short life.

Jon felt a feather-light touch on his shoulder, and he whirled around to see a young woman standing behind him, with long dark hair, and grey Stark eyes… his eyes… set in a pale, lovely face.

“Mother.”

Rickon was forgotten.

Father was forgotten.

All that mattered to Jon in that moment was that, for the first time, he felt his mother’s arms around him, he breathed the faint scent of winter roses that clung to her, and he knew what it was to have a mother’s love. When she kissed first his brow, then his cheeks, the tears she shed left his skin damp, but Jon scarcely noticed. He felt hot tears prick the back of his eyes but blinked them back. He repeated the word ‘Mother’, over and over, ecstatic to be able to call her by that precious name at last. She called him Jon, not Aegon, the name she had given him at birth, and surely no sound could have been sweeter than his mother’s voice speaking his name.

“Your father is here too,” Mother told him, with a watery smile.

Ned Stark was the man Jon thought of as his father, not Rhaegar Targaryen, but Jon could not deny that he was curious to meet the man who had sacrificed everything for the love of his mother.

His curiousity was mingled with dread, however; he could not forget that Rhaegar was Dany’s brother. Jon knew that he would never be able to forgive a man who slayed Arya, no matter what she had done and no matter how dear to his heart he might have been before.

Had the deed, necessary though it had been, cost him the love of the father he never knew?

Yet Rhaegar grew up during the reign of the Mad King… Jon’s grandfather… and saw the damage he inflicted on the realm and its people. Dany would have done worse. Jon shuddered to think of the harm the Mad King would have wrought, had he had Drogon at his command. There was no telling what Dany might have done after she killed Sansa and Arya, after she burned Winterfell to ashes, along with every Northerner who cleaved to House Stark rather than bending the knee to her. She might have set the whole world aflame, convinced that she was setting it to rights. Of all people, Rhaegar must surely understand that Jon did the right thing, the only thing he could do.

As if summoned by his thoughts or his mother’s words, Rhaegar appeared by her side, and as soon as he saw him, Jon knew how his mother was able to leave behind her family and her betrothed to be with him. Dany was so beautiful that there were times that Jon could scarcely believe that she was human. Rhaegar was as beautiful as his sister, yet nobody could ever call him womanish. Jaime Lannister had been called one of the handsomest men in the Seven Kingdoms, yet he would have looked plain if he stood side-by-side with Rhaegar. His hair was silver… Dany’s hair. At first glance, Jon thought that his eyes were dark blue but, when he looked more closely, he saw that the colour was closer to indigo. His features were as perfect as those of a statue, or perhaps the pictures of handsome knights and princes in the books Sansa had so cherished as a young girl. Jon had always known that he had the look of a Stark, but when he learned of his parentage, he wondered if there was anything of Rhaegar Targaryen in him. Now that he saw the man, he could see nothing of himself there. He was all Stark.

“This is our son.”

Rhaegar bestowed a regal nod on him, and though, other than their shared colouring, he did not look like Dany, not truly, Jon was vividly reminded of her.

He waited for Rhaegar to say something, hoping to hear words of praise or love, dreading that he would be censured for killing Dany, but Rhaegar said nothing.

The silence stretched between them for what felt like a very long time before being broken by the sound of chimes.

“Have we all had a happy reunion, dears?” Betty asked brightly, appearing in the centre of the room, flanked by a number of others.

Jon noted that, though she still wore her bright pink, flowery robe, she now wore a necklace of pearls, in what must have been every colour imaginable, around her neck. Her curls were crowned with a wreath of flowers, as if a tourney champion had named her his Queen of Love and Beauty. The others with her were all wearing similar robes, in a rainbow of colours. Some of them even wore odd, pointed hats that sparkled when the light hit them. Shawn was among them, but his only concession to the general air of festivity was the pair of tassels, in a shade of grey only slightly lighter than that of his robes, affixed to each of his shoulders.

“We’ve laid out a bit of a spread for you,” Betty continued, smiling modestly as she gestured to the many heavily laden tables. “Help yourselves. Dying can be hungry work.”

“This way, Jon.” Mother tucked her arm through his, and guided him over to one of the tables.

Jon could not begin to imagine how she knew that this was the right one, as there was no banner above it or any other indication who it was meant for, but it must have been, for all of the Starks made their way towards it. Rhaegar trailed behind them, taking a seat at the table without a word. Father, Lady Catelyn, Robb, Bran and Rickon gave no indication that they thought it odd that a Targaryen should feast with them, and though Sansa and Arya regarded him with narrowed eyes, they said nothing, for which Jon was thankful.

The smell of the food made his mouth water.

There was Old Nan’s kidney pie, its flaky crust stuffed almost to bursting with tender meat, peas and onions, all simmered for hours in rich gravy. The honey cakes he and Robb filched from the kitchens whenever they had a chance, and that they always agreed were well worth the punishment Father doled out if they were caught. The rack of lamb, baked in a crust of garlic and herbs, the buttery mashed turnips, crisp salad, and the iced blueberries and sweet cream that was served to him and his brothers when they passed into the Night’s Watch. The simple vegetable stew that had been the first meal he ate under Winterfell’s roof since he left it to join the Night’s Watch.

He felt a lump in his throat, so hard he thought for a moment that he might choke on it, when the aroma of spices tickled his nose, and he could not bring himself to look at that dish. Dany had probably told him what it was called when it was brought to them, but he was so enraptured by her that he could think of little else. All he remembered of the dish was that it was sweet at first, then came the scorching bite of the Essosi spices. Dany’s laugh was musical as he snatched at his mug of ale, gulping it down in the hope of quenching the fire in his mouth. Afterwards, his skin tingled everywhere her lips touched.

Jon’s appetite deserted him.

Not wanting to upset the others, he accepted a helping of Old Nan’s pie, which turned to a thick, tasteless paste in his mouth, and nursed a bowl of the blueberries, moving them around with his spoon and crushing them so their juices mixed with the cream. Across the table from him, Sansa was ignoring the intricate dishes in front of her, every one of them worthy of a royal banquet, in favour of the platter of lemon cakes at her elbow. Arya chuckled lightly as she lifted up a loaf of bread that had been crudely shaped into a wolf.

He listened with half an ear as Sansa spoke to Robb, between mouthfuls of cake, telling him how they had reclaimed Winterfell, and how she had secured the North’s independence.

“Is Torrhen Stark here? He should be happy to hear that the North is free once more.”

“He is in the Other Place,” Father told her quietly.

Sansa gave a quick nod of acknowledgement and satisfaction, looking up to meet Jon’s gaze. He could hardly argue with her. What more proof could they need that she was right to want to fight for their independence, and to be angry with him for yielding it to Dany?

“Your attention, please.” Shawn spoke in a low voice, yet every voice fell silent, as though he had been heard the length and breadth of the cavernous hall. Jon craned his neck to look at him, and saw that he was standing at the centre of the room, a crystal goblet in his hand. Betty and the other robed figures also held goblets. “I would like to raise a toast to all of our new arrivals. May your time here be all that you deserve it to be.”

“I’ll drink to that!” Tyrion Lannister’s voice echoed through the hall, and was met by a chorus of chuckles.

“And a special toast, to those among you who almost didn’t make it. Yara Greyjoy.” Yara rose to her feet, her face a picture of defiance as she raised a tankard in acknowledgement of the toast. Shawn looked a little taken aback at first, but after a moment, he raised his goblet in return and, for an instant, Jon thought he saw a hint of a smile threatening to crack his sombre expression. “Gendry Baratheon. Davos Seaworth. It was a close call, but we are very glad to have you with us.”

Jon felt pity first, then a stab of indignation. Surely all that should matter was that they had all done enough good in life to deserve their reward. Why single out those who might have gone to the Bad Place? Ser Davos may have been a smuggler in his youth, but to Jon’s mind, he had redeemed himself ten times over. That was all that anybody should care about. He tried to catch Ser Davos’ eye, but the other man was busy with his family.

“They should raise a toast to the people with the best scores,” Sansa opined, helping herself to another lemon cake.

“And you think that would be you?” Arya teased, though unlike their frequent spats as children, there was no malice in her voice.

Rather than taking offence, Sansa chuckled softly in response to Arya’s teasing. “Would it be so surprising?”

Whatever reply Arya might have been made went unspoken.

At the centre of the hall, a ball of white light, about as tall as a man, appeared, growing brighter and brighter until it almost blinded Jon. He shielded his eyes against the glare, and when the light faded, two men and two women stood. They wore robes that were similar to those worn by Betty, Shawn and the others, except that the colours were muted.

“We are here for Jon Snow,” one of the men announced.

Shawn strode towards them, his expression stony, the others following in his wake. Jon could not help but notice that even Betty’s cheerful smile had vanished, replaced by a grave mien at odds with her festive garb.

“What is the meaning of this?” Shawn demanded.

The other man offered him a rolled scroll. “A claim has been lodged with the Office for the soul of Jon Snow.” He did not even need to scan the hundreds of faces in the room before his gaze settled on Jon, as if he had known where he was sitting the moment he appeared. The eyes were grey, but not the dark grey of a Stark. They were pale, so pale that they could almost be called white, but when they looked at him, Jon felt as though they could see straight through him. When the man spoke, his voice was calm and emotionless. “You have been identified as the soulmate of Daenerys Targaryen, ten years deceased. Soulmates always go to the same Place.”

“Soulmates always _earn_ the same Place,” Shawn cut in. “In this case, they didn’t. Daenerys Targaryen is theirs but Jon Snow has earned his spot with us. Feel free to examine his record.”

“That will not be necessary. We are aware of Jon Snow’s final score. We calculated it, after all. Nevertheless, he must come with us.”

“No!” Arya was on her feet in an instant, her hand reaching to her belt, as if she expected to find Needle there. “You are not taking my brother to the Bad Place! He doesn’t deserve to suffer because of _her_!”

As grateful as he was for her intercession, Jon knew that, however skilled a warrior Arya might have been in life, her talents would be of no help to him here.

He saw Lady Catelyn tugging at Arya’s sleeve, urging her to sit back down, but Arya ignored her, her body as tense as a bow string, ready to spring into action. Lady Catelyn’s blue eyes met Jon’s, and he could see fury and bitter resentment in them. Even when he was a child, and she believed him to be the bastard that her husband got on another woman and insisted be raised under her roof, she had not looked at him with such hatred. Did she know enough of what had happened after she died to hate Jon for being the soulmate of a woman to whom he had yielded the crown that Robb fought and died for? Perhaps she was glad to think that he would be cast into the Bad Place, where she would never again need to lay eyes on him.

Jon could scarcely believe that this was happening.

He did the right thing in life, he made the right choice when Shawn asked him to choose which of his lives he wished to be judged by, and now that he was finally in the Good Place, reunited with his friends and family, they wanted to rip him away. They wanted to send him to the Bad Place, to suffer the tortures that should be reserved for those whose evil deeds in life had earned punishment. They wanted him to suffer alongside Dany because he was her soulmate, whatever that was, not caring that he did not deserve it.

“Bring her here,” Jon suggested, desperate to find an alternative to the bleak prospect laid before him. He could not bring himself to look at Sansa, or even Arya, knowing that they would be furious with him for making this suggestion, for wanting Dany to share in the reward they had earned, even after being given incontestable proof that he made the right choice ten years ago when he chose his family over her. He had to believe that they would rather see Dany saved if the alternative was that he be damned. Dany did terrible things, but she did good things too. Surely Sansa and Arya would agree that ten years of torture was punishment enough. They need not have anything to do with her once she was here. He and his family would enjoy the Good Place together, and he would make it clear to Dany that she needed to keep her distance. “If we are soulmates, and we are supposed to be in the same Place, she should come here instead of me going to her.”

Shawn fixed Jon with an irritated gaze. “There are rules, Jon Snow. Her kind are not allowed to enter this Place. However,” he added, in a calmer, almost friendly tone, his lips curving in a slight, thin smile, “if you choose to remain with us, I see no reason why you should be forced to leave.”

Despite all she had done, Jon hated the idea of Dany continuing to suffer, but what good would it do for him to be tortured too? She loved him. For all her faults, of which there were many, she had loved him. Bursts of memories, images flashed through his mind. Her hand in his. Her pledge to help him for nothing in return. Her earnest and sincere regard for him as a person; a whole and deserving person despite the fact that she knew he was a bastard. Her desperate pleas for him to love her too, her whole heart exposed, cracked open and bleeding, open for him even though she had been betrayed too many times to count by others, and many times by him as well. She had loved him even as he stabbed her, he thought. She was grateful he saved her from herself. He had to believe that, despite their final moments together, she would not want him to suffer.

He opened his mouth to tell Shawn that he wanted to stay, but before he could say a word, a heavy hand clamped over his mouth, silencing him. He instinctively tried to break free, but the grip tightened.

“No, Jon,” Ned Stark told him. “You have to go to her.”

Jon renewed his struggles, wondering what madness could have possessed Father that he would demand this of him, wondering why Mother and Rhaegar and Robb did not intercede.

“She’s in the Good Place.”

Jon was dead but, somehow, Father’s words were able to knock the breath from him, make his heart feel as though it had burst in his chest, and render his limbs as heavy and immovable as if they were carved from stone.

For a moment there was silence.

Then…

“You naughty boy, Eddard,” Betty spoke in a gently chiding tone, wagging a disapproving finger. “You’ve spoiled our lovely surprise!”

Shawn’s expression did not change, but the gaze he fixed on Father was colder and harder than the Night King’s. “If you were that eager to spend time in the Kitchen, you need only have asked.”

Jon could feel the shudder than ran through Father’s body at Shawn’s words, and hear his quiet moan of dread, swiftly followed by a sob of distress from Lady Catelyn. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Robb wince, and even Rickon turned white, his skinny body trembling. Tears streamed freely down his mother’s cheeks as she looked at her brother, but Jon saw gratitude in her eyes too.

“NO!” Sansa’s shriek reverberated in Jon’s ears, then she was on her feet, stalking over to them. “It’s a lie! She is in the Bad Place; she has to be after everything she did! She made Jon bend the knee to her! She took the North from me! It was mine, and she took it! She didn’t care that I bled for the North! She didn’t care that I should be Queen! She killed all those people in King’s Landing! How can she not have lost points for that?”

“Each of Daenerys Targaryen’s actions in life earned and lost the number of points prescribed by our system,” the man who appeared to have been chosen to speak for the new group told Sansa placidly. “Her assignment to the Good Place was determined by her cumulative score.”

“Then you counted it wrong!”

“Our calculations are never wrong.”

“They were this time! How can you possibly think that _she_ was a good person, and I was a bad person?”

“We do not think. We know. Your scores were calculated and verified in accordance with our system. Our system is infallible.”

Sansa’s face was flushed with anger, and her hands were balled into fists at her side. For a few moments, the only sound in the cavernous room was that of Sansa’s ragged breaths. Then, her head snapped up, and she looked first to the man, then to Shawn and Betty, and finally to Jon, her eyes gleaming in what looked like triumph as she met his gaze.

“This is a test,” she announced, relief in her voice, and a slight, smug smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Don’t you see, Jon? They’re not sure if you belong here, so they are testing you to make sure. You chose _her_ once before, when you gave her the North. They need to make sure that, this time, you will do the right thing and choose your family, your _pack_. I’m right, aren’t I?” she demanded of nobody in particular. “If Jon chooses to go to her, you will send him to the Bad Place for betraying his family and choosing a terrible person over us.”

Jon did not know what to believe. He wanted to believe that Sansa was right. It would make so much sense for her to be right. If Dany was in the Good Place, then it meant that his friends, his family, had all been condemned to the Bad Place. Surely it made more sense that it should be the other way around. Dany did… what she did… while Father, and Uncle Benjen, and Robb all sought to lead honourable lives.

Yet he could not make himself believe that Father would ever encourage him to go to Dany, if he knew that to do so would condemn him to eternal torture.

Father would never agree to be part of such a cruel test, would he?

“The Good Place would never play a nasty trick like that,” Rickon said, with the innocent faith that was lost to Jon a long time ago, if he had ever possessed it. “They’re good and kind, and Jon’s soulmate must be good and kind if she was sent there. Jon should go to her, so he can be happy. If he stays here, they’ll hurt him.”

“They’d do it if it was a test.”

“It’s not a test, Sansa,” Father told her gravely. “This is the Bad Place.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Robb spoke up.

Lady Catelyn moved to wrap her arms around her daughter, weeping openly as she stroked Sansa’s hair. She was saying something, but Jon could not make out her words through her sobs.

A portly man with a beard, wearing bright yellow robes, lavishly beribboned in red, moved to the pair, reaching out to finger Sansa’s hair. “I want this one for Hair Pulling.”

“You know the rules, Glenn,” Betty chided him. “Employee of the Bearimy gets first pick of the newbies. Don’t fret. There are plenty of humans to go around.”

“No!” Sansa insisted, stamping her foot. “You’re lying!”

Jon looked to Arya, expecting her to share in Sansa’s anger and disbelief but, instead, she looked sad.

Sansa pulled away from the man in yellow, and from Lady Catelyn, storming over to Shawn. She stood directly in front of him, as regal as a Queen, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. “This is a lie. Admit it!”

“As you wish. This is a lie. You, a human, are so clever that you have outsmarted demons who have lived for hundreds of thousands of your years, and effortlessly seen through our cunning ruse. It is entirely believable that, though only the people with the very highest scores, those who have lived lives of extraordinary goodness, make it to the Good Place, all of your family and friends made it. It is utterly inconceivable that demons who were provided with a bumper crop of bad people who, in their arrogance, think themselves good, would mislead them into thinking that they were in the Good Place, so that it would be all the more painful for them when they learned their eternal fate. It is, of course, impossible to believe that your friends and family would play along with our charade if it meant that they would enjoy a reprieve from agonizing torture, and that you would not be made to suffer immediately upon arrival.”

Shawn spoke in a flat tone, and his face betrayed no hint of emotion, but his companions made up for it. Most of the brightly robed figures were laughing uproariously, clutching their sides as if overcome with mirth. Betty’s face was creased with amusement, and she was dabbing at her streaming eyes with a flowered handkerchief.

Their laughter only infuriated Sansa all the more. Unshed tears of rage made her blue eyes seem impossibly bright, and she stamped her foot in frustration, the heavy silk of her gown rustling, and the silver crown on her head knocked askew by the movement. “Stop laughing! Stop lying! Stop pretending! Daenerys Targaryen is in the Bad Place! I know she is! She was an evil person who did terrible things. She was a mad Queen!”

“My sister was not mad!” Rhaegar Targaryen snapped at her, speaking for the first time. The fury in his expression would have made any other man look ugly, yet Rhaegar’s anger did not detract from his beauty. Looking at him, Jon could understand why the Targaryens were called dragons. Rhaegar’s eyes smouldered as Drogon’s had when he realised that his mother was dead, and reduced the Iron Throne to a puddle of molten metal in his grief. He met Jon’s gaze for the briefest of moments, and then looked away as though he could not bear the sight of him. “My sister achieved great things, and brought glory to our House. Had she lived, she would have forged a stronger, greater Westeros than even the Conqueror did. The only mistake she made was in becoming embroiled with House Stark. I am the last man who can condemn her for _that_.”

Jon did not fail to notice his mother’s slight flinch at these words, but she recovered quickly, and returned Rhaegar’s glare with one of her own.

Instead of responding to Rhaegar, his mother took Jon’s face between her hands. They were of a height, and she kissed him gently on the forehead. “You need to go with them, Jon. Please.”

Jon’s nod was a slight one, but Mother breathed a sigh of relief, and Father released him from his grasp. The two of them enfolded him in a tight embrace, pressing kisses to his forehead and cheeks, and whispering words of reassurance, promising him that they would be fine, as long as they knew that he was safe.

Finally, reluctantly, Jon pulled free of their embrace, and addressed the man who had come for him. “I’ll go.”

“Not so fast,” Shawn cut in. “I won’t allow it. He belongs here. There are rules.”

“The rules state that soulmates belong in the same Place,” the man began.

“And that good people can never set foot in the Bad Place, I know,” Shawn interrupted. “But the rules also state that humans must get what they deserve. You calculated his score. Does Jon Snow deserve the Good Place?”

“No.”

“Then I refuse to allow you to take him. Only a higher authority can give the order. The _highest_ authority.”

A flicker of fear showed on the man’s otherwise expressionless face. “You can’t mean…”

“That’s right,” Shawn confirmed. “I’m taking this before the Judge.”


	3. Chapter Three

****  


Daenerys Targaryen’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the brightness when she opened them and, at first, the softly glowing green shapes on the pale wall in front of her were indistinct. As her vision cleared, the blurred shapes formed letters, first in the graceful, sweeping characters of the High Valyrian that was her mother tongue, then shifting into the plainer script of the Common Tongue.

**Welcome!**

**Everything is Fine.**

She felt rested and refreshed, as though she had just woken from a sleep more peaceful than any she had had since she was a little girl under the devoted care and protection of Ser Willem Darry, yet also fully alert.

She could not remember falling asleep, however.

She remembered a celebration of some kind at Winterfell… yes, they were celebrating the defeat of the Night King. She remembered her relief when she saw that Grey Worm had survived the battle, and when Missandei emerged from the crypts. She remembered how it warmed her heart when she saw the two of them sitting together in the Hall at Winterfell, safe and so deeply in love. It was strange; try as she might, she could not remember seeing Ser Jorah at the celebration. Had he celebrated in private, or perhaps with the fighting men of House Mormont, restored to honour in their eyes by fighting so valiantly for the living?

The couch on which she was sitting was soft, cradling her body, and when her fingertips brushed the upholstery, it felt smoother than silk. The room was scented with all of her favourite flowers, and countless others that she had never before seen or imagined. They were arranged in lavish bouquets, in great vases that gleamed as though they were made from crystals, or even diamonds. The vases were set on what seemed to be every flat surface in this strange room, which did not resemble either the cool, expansive chambers of the Great Pyramid, the gloomy majesty of her castle at Dragonstone, or the ancient stone corridors and rooms at Winterfell. The four walls were pale, the colour of fresh cream, and there was little furniture other than the couch on which she was sitting, and the tables and pedestals that seemed to serve no purpose other than providing places for the flowers to be set out.

A soft, creaking sound made her turn her head towards a door that she could have sworn had not been there a moment before. The man who stood in the doorway was clad in bright blue and green robes, lavishly trimmed with gold braid. He was of middling height, and though he was not fat, his face was broad and round, almost like a child’s. His smile was wide and welcoming as he hurried forward, reaching out his hands to help her to her feet.

“Welcome, Daenerys. This is such an honour. We’ve all been so excited to meet you. Everybody wanted to be the one to take you through Orientation, and you have no idea how happy it makes me to be chosen one! Come in, come in.” He began to lead her towards the door, pushing the door wide open to admit her to the next room, which was no more familiar than the first. After spending a few moments fussing solicitously as he helped her into a plush chair set in front of a wide desk, its craftsmanship unlike anything she had seen before, he bustled to the other side of the desk to his own chair. He sat in silence, beaming widely at her, for a few moments before shaking himself slightly. “Where are my manners? I should have introduced myself! Can we start again? My name is Corwin.” He stood, reaching across the desk for her hand. When she placed it in his, he shook it enthusiastically. “How are you?”

“I am well.” It was true. Daenerys couldn’t remember the last time she had felt better. By all rights, between the battle and the freezing cold, she should have felt stiff and sore, but she could not remember when she had last felt this good. “What is this place? The last thing I remember is being in Winterfell. There was a feast, so we must have defeated the Night King, and…”

“No, no, my dear,” Corwin patted the hand he still held gently. “Please don’t try to force yourself to remember. You will give yourself a most dreadful headache. A most dreadful headache indeed. It can be exceptionally agonising, all of those memories being forced into your head at once. It’s better to allow it to come gradually, when the time is right. I’m afraid that what I have to tell you may come as a little bit of a shock. You, Daenerys Targaryen, are dead. For just over ten years now, as a matter of fact. We would have loved to have you here sooner but… well, you’ll soon find out.”

“I am dead.” Perhaps she should have felt shocked or angry, or even refused to believe it, but even as she said the words aloud, Daenerys knew them to be true.

“That’s right.”

“Why can’t I remember dying?”

“It’s standard policy in the case of sudden or traumatic deaths to suppress the memory of the event. Depending on circumstances, it can be necessary to suppress the memories going further back.”

“For how long?” Despite the comfort of her surroundings, and the kindness and friendliness of Corwin’s manner, it made Daenerys feel uneasy not to be able to remember what had happened to her, especially as it had apparently happened over ten years ago. If her life had taught her nothing else, it had taught her that she could not take sumptuous surroundings and kindly smiles at face value. The sweetest wine could be tainted by the deadliest of poisons.

“That depends a great deal on the person, and the nature of their deaths. Some people need only a few weeks or months, others might need years. It might be a little longer in your case, but please don’t worry about it. For now, all you need to know is that your life in the world you knew is over, and you have moved on to the next phase of your existence in the universe.” Corwin released her hand, and began to leaf through the pages of a large book, bound in crimson and black leather, that Daenerys was certain had not been on the desk when they first sat down. “I see from your file that you were not a follower of any religion in life. That is no criticism, Daenerys, far from it,” he said reassuringly. “It makes no difference to your score and, in any case, when it comes to the afterlife, there is no religion that has managed to get everything right, so it is not as if you are at a disadvantage in that regard. All of them have been able to guess a tiny part, but none of them have come close to understanding the whole truth.”

“And what is this whole truth?”

“It’s actually much simpler than most people think it is. In the afterlife, there is a Good Place and there is a Bad Place. Good people go to the Good Place, and bad people go to the Bad Place. The Good Place is a paradise, whose inhabitants live in peace, comfort and happiness, in the company of other truly good souls, where anything you wish is yours, and where you can go and do whatever will bring you joy. The Bad Place is…” Corwin trailed off, his face taking on a greenish hue. He swallowed a few times, reminding Daenerys of herself when she was carrying Rhaego, and strove to force herself not to vomit, not to show weakness in front of Drogo or any of his khalasar. “If you don’t mind, perhaps we could leave the subject of the Bad Place for now. It’s a very unpleasant topic, and the less said, the better.”

“Now, where was I?” Corwin muttered distantly before clearing his throat, and straightening both himself and the book in front of him. “Ah, yes. The system. So, during your lifetime, every single one of your deeds, no matter how major or minor, was assessed according to our points system, based on how much good or bad that action put out into the universe. Whenever somebody hugs a friend who is feeling sad, they gain almost five points. If they tell a lie to a person, they lose just over seven points. If they free a slave, they gain one hundred and seventy-nine points. If they don’t say ‘excuse me’ when they belch, they lose four points. If they plant a tree, they gain twelve and a quarter points. If they salt a field, they lose just over eighty-two points per acre. If they feed a hungry stray, they gain three and a half points per stray, per meal. If they talk at the theatre, they lose almost ninety-one points, plus two and a third for every person they disturb. Would you like some more examples? I can go on?” Corwin asked enthusiastically.

“No, thank you,” Daenerys answered, as politely as she could. In truth she was feeling a little overwhelmed.

“If you change your mind, please do let me know. It’s no trouble. No trouble at all. Anyway, at the end of each person’s lifetime, the Accounting Department calculates the total value of their life, and they are assigned an afterlife based on their final score. The people with the very highest scores, the people who lived one of the best lives that could be lived, the greatest of the great, the kindest of the kind, if you will, get to go to the Good Place. Everybody else goes to the Bad Place.”

“Where am I going to be sent?” Daenerys inquired softly, already attempting to steel herself for the worst. She had waged wars and sacked cities. People had died at her command. People had died because she had failed to protect them…

Corwin stared at her, mouth dropping open in shock. It took a few moments for him to recover. “I assumed that you knew… I never imagined that you would be in any doubt, not with your record.” He paused for a moment, his smile growing even wider, his eyes shining almost impossibly bright. “Daenerys Targaryen, it is my happy duty to be the one to tell you that you’re in the Good Place. Everything is fine.”

Despite Corwin’s reassuring news and kind smile, Daenerys found herself conflicted, and, in a rush of anxious energy she burst out, “How many people get to go to the Good Place? How many points do you need to get in?”

Corwin’s words about only the people with the very highest scores being allowed into the Good Place made Daenerys extraordinarily uneasy.

She thought about all of the people she had loved and lost. Ser Willem Darry. Drogo. Jhiqui. Irri. Rakharo. Ser Barristan Selmy. Even Viserys was kind to her when they were children, and she had no wish to see him suffer, especially after the hardships he endured in life. Her sun and stars had committed deeds that harmed many innocent people, and though he was a loving husband to her… eventually… she could not pretend that this was going to be enough to secure him entry to the Good Place. She hated to think of him suffering in this Bad Place instead of riding with his ancestors in the Night Lands as he had believed he would. As to the others, they were good people, kind and loyal, but if the requirements were as high as Corwin was intimating, she feared that they might not have been deemed good enough.

What of Jorah, Missandei, Grey Worm, Yara and Jon, when their time came?

If not for Jorah, she would have been killed when Drogo died, or else dragged back to Vaes Dothrak, condemned to spend the rest of her days among the Dosh Khaleen. She would never have brought her children into the world, never travelled to Slaver's Bay, never returned to Westeros. He had saved her life, over and over, and served her even when she banished him.

She knew nobody as intelligent, gentle, loving and wise as Missandei, who had willingly followed her into danger that she might help to free others from bondage. If she could be deemed worthy of this Good Place, despite her failures, despite the lives she had taken, then surely Missandei, who had endured so much and had never harmed a man, woman, child or animal, could not be anywhere else.

Grey Worm was brave and loyal and fought unceasingly to bring freedom to those enslaved. He pledged himself to Daenerys' cause when he could have chosen freedom, and despite the horrors of his childhood and boyhood, he kept a gentle heart, and was able to love again.

Yara crossed an ocean to help Daenerys return to Westeros, and committed to putting an end to the raiding, reaving and raping of the Ironborn, embracing peace to give her people a future.

And Jon. Surely Jon deserved to be here. He had sacrificed his entire adult life to defeating the army of the dead. He did all he could to protect his people. He brought the people of the North and her people together, and led them to victory against Death itself.

And what of children? How could it be just that a babe who died before they had a chance to do any great deeds, or even before they had a chance to live at all, should be consigned to the Bad Place? She thought of Rhaego, of the children the Masters of Meereen crucified as a message to her, of Hazzea, the little girl Drogon killed, of little Rhaenys and baby Aegon, her murdered niece and nephew, and tears stung the back of her eyes at the idea of them being abandoned to eternity in a place so terrible that Corwin could not bring himself to speak of it.

“It’s an incredibly selective system, and I’m afraid that most people don’t make it here,” Corwin explained in a soft but certain tone. “The threshold for entry is just under a million points. I believe that the ratio is about thirteen million, six hundred and seventy-nine thousand, two hundred and twelve people sent to the Bad Place for every person who earns the Good Place, though we _have_ been having an above-average number of new arrivals this Bearimy. But you don’t need to give the Bad Place a second thought. The First Rule is that a good person can never go to the Bad Place, so you will never set foot there.”

His beaming smile never faltered for an instant as he named the figures, and he did not wait for Daenerys to respond before he rose to his feet, indicating that she should do the same.

“Let’s start with a tour, shall we?”

The next thing she knew, they were standing outside.

The longest Daenerys had stayed in one place was Braavos, in the house with the red door, where she and Viserys had lived with Ser Willem Darry from the day he brought them there, when she was still a babe in arms, until the terrible day, five years later, when their kind, loyal guardian died. No sooner had Ser Willem breathed his last than the servants stole everything of value, and cast her and Viserys out onto the streets with little more than the clothes on their backs, and the few keepsakes Viserys was able to snatch up before they too could be stolen.

Since then, she had travelled between the Free Cities, ridden across the Dothraki Sea, dwelled for a time in the ancient city of Qarth, passed from Astapor to Yunkai to Meereen, her army growing with each city, and then crossed the sea back to Westeros. She came ashore on the island of her birth, flew to the Reach and to the Dragonpit at King’s Landing, and travelled North, even going beyond the Wall. 

She supposed that she had seen more of the world than most, but never in her life had she seen a place as beautiful as this.

Magister Illyrio had thrice as many slaves to tend his expansive gardens as he had to tend his manse. He gladly spent fortunes on rare and exotic plants, and even in the hottest, driest summers, he paid handsomely to ensure that there would be an ample supply of fresh water to keep his garden green and blooming.

Now, she was standing in a garden that was lovelier by far than Magister Illyrio’s, and lovelier even than the gardens she imagined as a child, on the good nights when Viserys held her to him, and told her stories of the Red Keep and how beautiful everything there was. The sky was vast expanse of blue, dotted with wispy clouds as white as the snow by the waterfall. Expansive lawns stretched as far as her eyes could see. What must have been hundreds of different types of trees provided shade. The paths were bordered by flowers, and the lawns set with great flowerbeds. As with the bouquets in the room in which she had woken, there were countless varieties of flowers, many of which were new to her. Colourful butterflies, larger and more gloriously hued than any she had ever seen in life, fluttered over the flowers, and birdsong filled the air.

She and Corwin were standing next to a fountain, the water crystal clear, with tiny goldfish swimming in it. There was a wide path circling the fountain, with several paths branching off it.

“This is my personal favourite of the gardens,” Corwin confided in her. He pointed at one of the paths first, then to two of the others in turn. “This path leads to the town square, that one to the lake, and that one to the beach. You’ll soon learn your way around, and if you have any questions, a Janet will be happy to help you. I made sure that your home would be close to this garden.”

“My home?” she whispered, her voice tinged with a delicate longing. Daenerys had never had a home, not truly. Even when they lived in the house with the red door, Viserys was always adamant that it was not their home, that their _true_ home was across the Narrow Sea. Perhaps the Dothraki Sea might have become her home, had Drogo and their child lived, but she lost them. She had ruled Meereen for a time, but never intended to stay there. Her arrival on Dragonstone should have been a homecoming, but though she had been born there, it had not feel like home.

“That’s right.” Corwin laid a gentle hand on her elbow, guiding her down a fourth path. “In the Good Place, every person gets to live in a home that is perfectly designed for them, the home of their dreams. We want all of our residents to have a home that makes them happy. They’ve earned it. _You’ve_ earned it. It’s not far, just a few minutes’ walk. I’m so excited! I can’t wait for you to see it! In fact,” he stopped in his tracks, dancing on the spot with excitement. “Why wait?”

Corwin lifted his hand and made a strange gesture and, an instant later, the two of them were standing in front of a castle.

It was smaller than Winterfell, and smaller than Dragonstone. It was built from reddish stone that glowed in the sunlight, and the tall double doors were painted red. It was surrounded by a garden, smaller than the one they had come from, but no less beautiful, and even from the path, Daenerys could smell the lemons that grew in the trees.

She had never seen the castle before, but she _knew_ it.

“It’s the Red Keep!” she exclaimed loudly around her smile. “I mean…”

“It is the Red Keep of your dreams,” Corwin cut in excitedly, beaming at her. “Well, _mostly_ of your dreams. We took the liberty of making a few minor improvements. Five-year-olds have wonderful imaginations, but they tend not to think of everything. I believe you wanted a thousand thousand libraries, which sounds delightful,” he smiled indulgently at her, “But you never considered a privy.” He chuckled good naturedly, and Daenerys could not help but join in.

“As I said, children are outstanding in their visualisations, but lack the knack of practicality. Do you like it?” he inquired anxiously. “We worked so hard to get the details perfect. If you ask me, it’s much better than the other Red Keep.”

“The real Red Keep.” The castle before her was exactly as she pictured it when she was a little girl, and she closed her eyes as Viserys told her of their home, imagining what it would be like.

“This Red Keep is real now.”

“It’s perfect,” she breathed out on a wistful sigh.

Corwin bounced a little on the balls of his feet, his face wreathed in a delighted smile. “I’m so glad you like it! Let’s take a tour, shall we?” Without waiting for a response, he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and led her up the smooth flagged path, and the flight of wide stone stairs that led to the great red double-door, doing a little skip every few steps.

The doors opened at their approach, and Corwin guided her up the steps into a high-ceilinged foyer.

The floor was of marble the colour of Dornish Red, so smooth and highly polished that she could almost see her reflection. On each side of the foyer, a pair of columns in black marble stood on either side of a door crafted from dark wood, and carved with images of tiny dragons flying.

“The dining room is on the right, and on the left, we have the library, just the one I’m afraid,” he jested with a sparkling wink at her, “but I assure you it is well-stocked with everything you could ever want or need,” he told her, his voice mingling the excited glee of a child showing off a new toy with the pride of a master craftsman unveiling his latest creation.

At his words, the doors of each room opened in turn, though there was nobody there to open them.

The dining room was small compared to the great hall of any castle or keep, more akin to dining chamber in their house in Braavos, where she and Viserys enjoyed cosy meals with Ser Willem. The child she once was had never dared to suggest to Viserys that the Red Keep was not perfect in every way, but she had not relished the idea of dining in chilly formality before hundreds of eyes, as he told her a King and his Queen ought to, so that their people might see them. The table was a long oval, with a dozen elaborately carved chairs, upholstered in a rich ruby red lavishly embroidered in silver thread, set around it. The table was set in readiness for a meal, with fine porcelain dishes, gleaming silver cutlery, and sparkling crystal glasses. Three crystal vases were set on the table, each containing a massive bouquet of flowers.

“If you need the table to be bigger, or you want more chairs, all you need to do is think it,” Corwin explained.

A log fire burned brightly in the library’s large hearth, around which a sumptuous couch and several cushioned chairs were set. Plump, gaily coloured pillows were set on the couches and chairs, making them look comfortable and inviting. The walls were lined with shelves filled with more books than Daenerys had ever seen in one place, even in the library of Winterfell. Instead of the scrolls and dusty tomes that had lined the shelves at Winterfell, however, these books were bound in soft leather in a multitude of hues, their colours lending warmth to the room. She felt a lump form in her throat as she thought of how much Missandei would love to have access to so many books, and hoped with all her heart that, when her dear friend’s time came, she would have a chance to bring her here.

“Think of a book, any book you like,” Corwin urged her.

Daenerys remembered her wedding to Drogo, and the three books Jorah had gifted her with. She called the image of the first to mind, a small book of songs and stories from the Seven Kingdoms, with its yellowing pages and brown leather and iron bindings. An instant later, an object was hurtling at her head, and she instinctively reached out to catch it. The book in her hand was identical to the one Jorah had given her.

“You can peruse the shelves at your leisure – you have eternity to do it, after all – but any time you have something in particular you want to read, all you need do is think it.”

“It is truly remarkable!” she praised in earnest, and Corwin flushed heavily under it.

Daenerys scarcely had a moment more to take in the library before Corwin was leading her beyond the foyer to a slightly narrower hall, spiral staircases rising and falling from either side. Corwin chose to go down, and when they reached the lower level of the castle, he showed her first to a long room, almost twice as long as the library and dining room combined, though no wider than either. This room was floored in white marble but the walls were covered in an elaborate mosaic of fantastic sea creatures. The room was dominated by a rectangular pool, steam wafting gently from the crystal-clear water.

“I know that you prefer your water hot, but if you ever fancy a cold swim, just say so, and the water will adjust to suit your wishes. Any temperature you want. The water can be as calm as a millpond, or you might prefer some waves. And don’t be afraid to let it know what scent you desire it to be; a flower, perhaps, or an ocean breeze is always popular with our other residents.”

From the pool, Corwin led her through a heavily-stocked wine cellar to a massive, sun-filled chamber he called the playroom.

Every toy and game she ever imagined as a child was there, every toy from the royal nursery that Viserys had described to her, every doll and plaything she had ever seen hanging from a merchant’s stall and longed to possess. A low table stood in front of a window, on which a miniature version of the castle they were standing in was set, opened to reveal the intricately detailed rooms inside. Tiny dolls, each with silver hair, were lined in front of it. It was the nursery that Viserys had promised he would build for her and fill with the costliest toys in the Seven Kingdoms, the nursery that she had imagined. She could not remember how old she was when she finally accepted that, even if Viserys _was_ able to reclaim his rightful place as Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, she would have long outgrown the nursery when that day arrived. Now she was standing in the very room she had dreamed of, and every detail was perfect.

Had she been allowed to bear a child, she could not conceive of a more wonderful place for them to play.

“This is the theatre,” Corwin announced when they reached the next room, a hall with four silver-grey marble columns lined on either side. Although the theatre was a very large room, it was sparsely furnished, with only a single couch, at least twice as long as Daenerys was tall, this one upholstered in leather rather than fabric. Although the three of the four walls of the theatre were hung with intricate tapestries, the couch faced a blank wall.

Corwin gestured with one hand, and a tall, wide rectangle made from dark glass rose from the floor.

“What is that?” she asked, thoroughly bemused.

“You don’t have anything like this in the world of the living, not yet, so I’m afraid that it’s a little hard to explain, and it may take a while to get the hang of it. It’s called a screen, and you use it to watch things. See the lights underneath,” he pointed to the bottom of the rectangle… the screen… where green, blue and purple circles of light shone. She noticed that the green and purple lights were brighter than the blue by far. He pointed at the green light, and the screen turned white, and Daenerys’ name appeared in the middle, surrounded by a web of green writing and numbers. “This is used to review your deeds. You can choose any of the deeds that helped to bring you here, and when you make your choice, you will relive it, from your point of view. The blue is used to review all of your memories, but that facility is restricted for now, until you’ve settled in, and all of your memories come back. The purple allows you to watch anything you like. A list of plays is available on request.”

Daenerys scarcely had a chance to take in the theatre before Corwin hustled her towards the stairs and led her back to the first floor. Instead of leading her back to the foyer from which the dining room and library branched out, he guided her in the other direction, through tall oak double doors into a grand room at least as big as the theatre, though she estimated that the ceiling was twice as high.

She did not need Corwin to identify this room.

“It’s the throne room.”

The high ceiling was supported by columns of polished black and red marble. On either side, the walls were covered in beautiful, intricate frescoes of dragons of all sizes in flight, their names, in High Valyrian, painted in delicate gold lettering. The ones closest to the door were tiny, scarcely bigger than her children when they first hatched, but no less beautiful. As they made their way down the room, the dragons became bigger and bigger, until she reached the foot of the dais. To her left were three massive dragons in flight, their size made apparent by the castle painted next to them. Balerion. Meraxes. Vhagar. Directly opposite, another three dragons flew, and Daenerys needed no names to recognize her children; Drogon, the largest and most powerful of the three, flying highest of all, flanked by Rhaegal and Viserion.

“I used to be afraid of the idea of having skulls in the throne room,” Daenerys observed, more to herself than to Corwin.

“We know. That’s why we took the liberty of adding the frescoes instead. They’re so much prettier than bleached bone. It would be a wonderful place for parties, don’t you think?”

Sunlight streamed through the windows at the back of the throne room, each exquisitely depicting a member of her family in stained glass, the rays of coloured light reflecting off the gleaming surface of the Iron Throne.

The Iron Throne loomed above them, rising at least thirty feet high, reaching almost to the ceiling. A flight of shining steps led to the seat, which was so high that she imagined that, if anybody sat on it, those below would only be able to see the soles of their feet. Most of the swords that made up the throne of her ancestors gleamed silver, but here and there, Daenerys could see touches of gold. The hilts of the swords were embellished with jewels of varying hues; emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and diamonds. They were arranged gracefully, the swords that made up the back of the throne fanning out like the feathers of a peacock’s tail. She was just a little girl when she imagined this throne, not yet able to count to twenty. The thousand swords of Aegon’s enemies seemed such a vast number to the child she was, so great a number that she could not imagine being able to count so high.

She was realistic enough to know that the real Iron Throne could not be as beautiful as the one before her, but she could not help but regret that she had not seen it, that she might compare the two.

“Touch it,” Corwin urged her.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Daenerys reached out a tentative finger to touch one of the gleaming swords. She expected to feel cold steel but instead it was faintly warm, and as soft as a feather cushion.

“There wouldn’t be much sense in giving you a chair you couldn’t sit on, would there?”

Doors on either side of the Iron Throne led out onto a wide balcony overlooking a beautifully landscaped garden. Potted trees, ferns and flowers were placed at intervals along the balcony, and a shallow flight of steps at either end led down to the garden.

Corwin’s enthusiasm was infectious, and Daenerys willingly allowed him to lead her first to a gracefully appointed sitting room, and then through to a large, opulent bedchamber, dominated by a massive bed, with carved posts at each of the four corners, and pale violet silk hangings, embroidered in silver.

The adjoining bathing chamber was decorated in white marble and silver, but while the form of the sunken tub was familiar to her, Daenerys found some of the other objects in the room strange.

“Janet will explain how everything works,” Corwin told her, following her gaze to the oddly shaped seat set against one of the walls. “We’ve made some improvements to the plumbing and sanitation, compared to your time, but you’ll soon get used to it.”

He led the way back into the bedchamber, and across to a silk wall hanging depicting dragons, in a variety of sizes and colours, flying above a strange city, unlike any Daenerys had seen before, that she took to be Old Valyria. He gently moved the hanging aside, revealing a door painted in a reddish wood, tinted purple in parts. The door opened on a winding staircase, and Corwin led the way up.

“This tower can only be accessed through your bedchamber,” he explained, showing her first to a second sitting room, smaller than the one below but cosier and more simply furnished, and then to a study directly above, dominated by a desk crafted from dark, polished wood. A fire burned brightly in the small, black marble fireplace. Beyond the study, the winding staircase led up to door that opened onto a rooftop garden that reminded Daenerys of the balcony outside her apartment in the Great Pyramid of Meereen, with a small, tiled pool, and exotic plants and trees set in great urns.

“It’s beautiful,” she told him sincerely.

An instant later, a massive gust of air almost knocked her off her feet, and the cry of a dragon echoed in her ears.

Viserion flew over the tower, so close that, had Daenerys stretched to her full height and reached out her arm, she might almost have touched him as he flew past.

His scales were unmarred, gleaming creamy-white and gold in the sunlight, his eyes yellow-gold as a flame. He was there, and he was alive. He was _Viserion_ once more, flying free as a dragon was born to, no longer the wraith enslaved to the Night King.

“That was supposed to be a surprise,” Corwin said, looking crestfallen. “You were supposed to wait until the tour was over.” The last was spoken a little more loudly, and he wagged a disapproving finger in the dragon’s direction.

Viserion paid the rebuke no heed, screeching in glee as he soared through the air, circling the castle.

A second screech echoed Viserion’s, and a second dragon sped past him in a green blur.

Rhaegal!

What was Rhaegal doing here?

Viserion, she had seen felled by the Night King’s spear, only to return rotting, blue-eyed, and enslaved to the Night King. Rhaegal had survived the battle. Though he had taken wounds, those wounds had not been so severe as to endanger his life… or had they?

Her head throbbed as the pain of the memories and the grief of a mother when her child is snatched from her seared through her.

_Rhaegal, his body pierced by a vicious scorpion bolt._

_Rhaegal, falling from the sky and sinking beneath the waves._

Corwin’s arm was around her, supporting her. His voice was a soothing murmur and, at first, she could not make out what he was saying. After a few moments, her headache began to fade and his words became clear.

“…safe now, Daenerys, and happy, I promise you that. Nothing will ever hurt them here. They’re here because you love them, and they love you, and because you earned the Good Place, they can join you here, and you will have eternity together.”

“Where is Drogon?” Surely Drogon could not be dead too. Surely she had not lost all three of her children.

“He can’t be here yet; he is still in the world of the living. When his time comes, he will join you and his brothers here.”

Rhaegal flew closer to the castle, hovering so close to them that the plants on the terrace garden swayed back and forth with each flap of his wings. His amber eyes shone with concern, as if he sensed her distress. Taking a deep breath, Daenerys moved to the edge of the roof garden, leaning forward and stretching her arm out as far as it could go. Rhaegal flew closer, moving with a gentleness and deliberation that belied his great size, until his snout was close enough for her to touch. His green and bronze scales were hot to the touch, and unmarred by even the tiniest of scratches. He purred softly at her touch, as he had when he was no bigger than a cat, small enough to be cradled in her arms, and she knew that what Corwin said was true. He was safe here, and happy. His life might have been cut short but this did not grieve him. Instead, he was happy to be here, to play with the brother he had lost and regained, to be with his mother once more, and to wait as long as it took until Drogon could join them.

Almost as suddenly as it had come, her headache was gone, and Daenerys was able to smile at her green son, and to watch him fly off with Viserion.

Corwin’s relief when she smiled was palpable. He regarded her for a few moments and, when he spoke, his voice was tentative. “There are some people here who are very anxious to meet you. A couple of them may come as a shock to you. We can wait until your memories have returned. It’s completely up to you.”

She shook her head decisively. “I don’t want to wait.” Given how exceptionally remote the chances of a person being sent to the Good Place seemed to be, she was sure that nothing could be worse than to have to wait for however long it took for her memories to return, wondering all the while which of her loved ones had died in the weeks or months of her life that she could not remember, or in ten years since her death, and whether they were suffering in the Bad Place while she was here, in the castle of her childhood dreams, surrounded by every comfort and luxury she could ever want.

"If you're certain,” Corwin said, though he hesitated for a few moments, watching her intently as though to give her a chance to change her mind.

When her only response was a firm nod, he reached out, taking her gently by the arm, and guiding her back down the spiral stairs to her bedchamber, and from there through the sitting room to the throne room, where half a dozen figures awaited her.

She could recognize only two, and the sight both devastated and delighted her.

She had hoped that she would see Ser Barristan, and considered the possibility that Jorah, who was not a young man, had died in the ten years since her own death, but it was far too soon for Missandei and Grey Worm to be here. What had happened to bring them here when they should have had many more years, _decades_ , of life together?

“All is well,” Missandei said in her soft voice, reaching out to encircle Daenerys with warm, gentle arms. She reached out to touch her cheek, brushing away the tears with her fingertip. “Don’t cry, Your Grace. There is no need for tears, I swear it to you. Everything that happened in life brought us here, together. We are happy here, and you being here makes it even better.”

“What happened? How did you…” She felt a slight, dull ache at the back of her head, and her brow creased in response.

Missandei, seeing this, brushed her temple lightly with her fingers. “Don’t try to remember, Your Grace, please.”

“Daenerys,” she corrected. “You should both call me by my name. I am not a Queen here.”

Missandei’s eyes gleamed with amusement, and a hint of mischief. “Do not be so certain of that.”

To her surprise, Grey Worm embraced her next as warmly and as eagerly as Missandei had. In life, he had always kept a respectful distance, in deference to her position as his Queen, and Daenerys could not recall that he had ever touched her, save to shield her in battle. Now, he held her close, as a friend would, and she returned the embrace just as eagerly.

When he finally released her, his smile was wide and warm, but his eyes were serious. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She raised a warning eyebrow. “Daenerys,” he corrected himself, before repeating his words of thanks. “If not for you, Missandei of Naath and I would never have found one another, and we would never have had a chance to come here.”

Daenerys had no time to ask what he meant by that before Corwin drew an unfamiliar man forward. He looked to be about Ser Barristan’s age, his hair more white than silver and his face lined but showing signs that he was handsome in his youth. She did not know him, but the violet of his eyes was unmistakeable.

“I am Aemon Targaryen. Your grandfather Aegon was my brother.” The smile he gave her was kind. “The happiest and proudest moments in my last years of life were the days when I got word of your deeds, and my greatest regret was that I was too old to go to you. I was so proud of you, _am_ so proud of you. And now we are here, and I can see you with my own eyes. The reports of your beauty did not do you justice, dear child.”

“You’re embarrassing the poor girl,” a woman, who looked to be much the same age as her great-uncle, chided him mildly. Her hair was grey, but still thick and full, tied in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. A fine web of lines creased her face, particularly around the eyes, but her cheeks were full and pink, and her smile was infectious. “I am Meredyth Crassey. Your great-uncle has been like a child waiting for his nameday, longing for the day that you could join us.”

“As have I,” a gentle, musical voice spoke, the sound leading Daenerys to turn her head towards the speaker. The woman stood a head taller than Daenerys, but had the same silver hair, and their features were similar enough that there could be no doubting that they were kin. “You were so tiny the last time we were together. I knew that you would be special from the moment I first learned that I carried you, but I never dreamed how remarkable a woman you would grow up to be.”

“ _Muna_.”

Later, Daenerys would not be sure which of them was the first to move towards the other but, a moment later, she was in her mother’s arms.

Rhaella held her daughter close, her body swaying slightly, back and forth. She kissed the top of her head. “I am so proud of you, my darling girl. I love you.”

“I love you too, _Muna_.”

The castle was her childhood dreams of the Red Keep given substance but it was in Rhaella’s arms that Daenerys finally felt that she truly had come home.

They stood like that for a long time, both of them teary but overjoyed. Rhaella pressed a kiss to the top of Daenerys’ head before loosening her grasp very slightly, and turning her in the direction of a sixth person, a man in his middle years. He was tall and thin. His face was sombre, even stern, in repose, but when Rhaella and Daenerys turned towards him, a smile lit up his face, and he looked almost handsome.

“My darling, there is somebody I would like you to meet. This is Bonifer Hasty.”

Daenerys did not want to leave her mother’s embrace, but she shifted her position enough to allow her to extend her hand to Bonifer Hasty in greeting. His smile widened and he clasped her hand in warm, calloused fingers, bowing slightly over it.

“Welcome, Your Grace.” He was soft-spoken, seeming shyer in her presence than the others, and certainly more formal, but his smile was friendly and welcoming.

“Call me Daenerys, please.” At her request, Bonifer’s smile became even wider, and her mother hugged her closer, pressing another kiss on the top of her head. “Were you friends to my family?” She included Meredyth in the question as well as Bonifer. She could understand why her mother and her great-uncle were here to greet her, and why Missandei and Grey Worm were here, but she was puzzled about the presence of the other two. Bonifer Hasty’s name was vaguely familiar to her… perhaps Ser Barristan had mentioned him in one of his stories… but she had never heard of a Meredyth Crassey. 

Bonifer and Rhaella exchanged a look that Daenerys could not interpret but, before either of them could speak, Corwin cut in.

“Did you wonder why, if you died ten years ago, you didn’t come to the Good Place until now?” He did not give her a chance to answer before continuing. “Here in the Good Place, my fellow architects and I have the honour and the pleasure of creating a world where our residents can have the happy afterlife they have earned. We want you to have beautiful surroundings, the homes of your dreams, any material thing you could ever want, and the opportunity to go wherever you want, and to do whatever you want. It is extremely rare for a new resident to know one of their fellow residents before they arrive, let alone more than one.” He made a sweeping gesture to encompass the seven of them. “But everybody has somebody to connect to: their soulmate.”

“What’s a soulmate?”

“Your soulmate is your perfect match, the person who was made to love you, and who you were made to love. The vast majority of our residents never had a chance to meet their soulmates while they were alive, but here, they get to enjoy eternity together. We used to bring people here as soon as they died, and let them wait for their soulmate’s time to come, but we found that, even though everything else here was perfect, some of our residents found that something was missing, and they weren’t _truly_ happy until their soulmate could join them. It was all very, very sad.” His expression was tragic for a moment, as if he was pained by the memory of the imperfect paradise offered to some of those who died. “We don’t ever want people to have to be sad here. So now we make sure that nobody has to be here without their soulmate. You were the first to die, so we left you to rest until the time came. And now that the time is right,” he paused, his frown looking out of place on his amiable features. “And now that the time is right,” he repeated, this time more loudly.

A knock on the double doors of the throne room echoed his words.

Corwin beamed at Daenerys. “It’s time for you to meet your soulmate.”

The doors swung open.

“What is _he_ doing here?” Her mother’s sharp question scarcely registered with Daenerys.

Dismay at seeing him here so soon, so young, warred with her delight.

How could she have doubted for a moment that he would be here?

How could she not have known that he would be her soulmate? Was this why she had felt drawn to him, even when she was angry over his presumption in answering her invitation to bend the knee by coming to Dragonstone to assert the independence of the North, with himself as King, and to reject her right to rule? Had they been born to be together?

“Jon.”

A fair-haired woman, in cream-coloured robes, stood just behind Jon, and she was beaming widely as she nudged him forward encouragingly.

Daenerys slipped free of her mother’s arms, and ran down the length of the throne room. She reached out to embrace him, but he stiffened, shrinking away from her touch as though it was poison. He scowled at her as though he was disgusted by her, his grey eyes as cold and hard as the Night King’s.

“I don’t know how the fork you ended up here,” he began in a low growl, his fists clenching and unclenching, his posture rigid and his face drawn, as though holding back his anger was physically painful for him. “There is something very wrong with any system that would send my family to the Bad Place while you get to come here, after everything you did. All of those people! You burned little children alive, and you get to come here, while they suffer in the Bad Place! It’s not right! It’s not right and you know it! You should be in the Bad Place!”

A squeak of alarm from Corwin was Daenerys’ only warning before her mind was assaulted with an onslaught of memories.

_Grey Worm’s face, drawn with grief, as he reported that Missandei was missing, presumed captured by Cersei._

_Standing before the gates of King’s Landing, with her remaining Unsullied… so few of them now, so many that she had failed… and offering Cersei Lannister a chance to surrender, knowing that the woman would not take it, would rather see the city reduced to rubble than to loosen her hold on it._

_Seeing Missandei’s beautiful face, and hearing her speak the word ‘Dracarys’ before Cersei’s creature severed her head from her body, leaving both to fall from the walls of King’s Landing._

_Feeling her stomach churn and cramp, hunger gnawing at her body while fear gnawed at her mind, every morsel she dared to consume a gamble._

_The ships of Euron Greyjoy’s fleet, no match against her and Drogon._

_Her sense of triumph as she destroyed every one of those vile scorpions before they could steal her last child from her._

_The gates of King’s Landing shattering and the walls around them smouldering, laying the city open for her army to take it._

_Then fire._

_Red fire._

_Green fire._

_So much fire._

_Victory._

_They freed King’s Landing from a tyrant._

_They were going to free the world._

_Jon was there._

_They were going to rule together._

_They were going to leave the world better than they found it._

_They knew what was good._

_They would make the world good._

_“You are my Queen. Now and always.”_

_Jon’s voice was gentle, his kiss fervent._

_Then pain._

_Sharp._

_It burned, but not like fire._

_Fire could not harm her._

_This could._

Daenerys’ head ached so badly that it was all she could do to stay on her feet. She felt arms around her… her mother’s arms first, then Missandei’s… and heard Corwin’s exclamations of distress at her state. She forced herself to keep her eyes open, to meet Jon’s gaze, as the horrifying truth sank in.

“You killed me.”

It was all she could say before blackness swallowed the throne room, the people in it, and the pain.


End file.
